


The Bundle

by idgit_with_a_fidget



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Castiel, Kid Fic, Wingfic, bobby's place, toddler cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:00:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idgit_with_a_fidget/pseuds/idgit_with_a_fidget
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Uncle Bobby brings home a bundle for the brothers, unaware of the power it has. Sammy makes fast friends with the glowing, blue-eyed kid, but Dean has his suspicions, and a game of chase reveals the bairn's true form.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bundle

The bumbling bundle of oversized clothing and puppy fat tried to totter forward and across to the sofa, heaving itself up onto its stubby back legs using its equally round arms as a level. It swayed for a moment, gathering and settling equilibrium, small face a picture of vague bewilderment and concentration, before taking one shaky but momentous step. It wobbled, little fingers moving in a circle like a rat’s tail, before taking another. Then another. It was part-ways through the fourth unsure stagger when it gave a short cry and crashed face forward onto the bristly carpet at the edge of the dark, black ring that was scrawled upon it. The bundle huffed, displeased but unhurt, and sat, squat and blinking its large, dust-blue eyes up at the three faces that surrounded it through a scruffy mop of black hair. 

The bundle had been trying to walk all morning. The end result was always the same. Yet it was adamant little thing, resilient, and never once began to bawl or throw a tantrum when it did not achieve its goal. It yawned loudly, mouth stretching like a cavern and button nose wrinkling up, and it rubbed its face with the sleeve of the creased pale green shirt that belonged to the oldest brother.

Sammy jabbed the bundle and leaned in close, curious hazel eyes searching. He bumped noses with the bundle, who jerked back and sneezed, causing toddler Sam to burst into a fit of giggles that set him rolling onto his back and choking for air. 

“Sammy, quit messin’ with it,” Dean scolded, his six-year-old voice trying to mimic the deep, harsh tones his father used. Even at his young age he was trying to mirror every action, the father’s word become his law. He moved forward in an attempt to drag the squirming sibling away from the strange pale bundle. However, the kid wriggled and writhed away from his grip, waddling over to the newcomer once again, bumping noses and continuing to gurgle with laughter. The bundle just watched, silent, not even uttering a puzzled mewl. 

“He’s not an ‘it’, Dean,” their uncle informed, sitting in a wooden chair by his desk. “It’s a boy like you, you know. Play nice.”

Dean shot him an cross look and folded his arms.

The house in which Uncle Bobby lived was cluttered and dishevelled, and there was a thick layer of dust and a suspicious layer of grime on the majority of the surfaces. The books on the shelves were in a hundred different languages; the smell of knowledge and age and beer was a familiar, warm tang. The little Winchester brothers knew every nook and cranny of it, every hidden passageway and trick door, playing hide-n-seek in the darkest shadows and making hand puppets in the streaks of light. They’d spent hours, days exploring its secrets, having and creating adventures less dangerous than the ones their father told them stories of. It was situated in the middle of nowhere, on the fringe of a lonely road that lead to nothing spectacular. Dean had tried to walk that road one day, trailing behind him his younger brother in a red cart laden with juice boxes and animal crackers, but they hadn’t gotten far before Dean had lost sight of the horizon and was suddenly struck with a fear of oblivion. The road merely stretched, forever winding, no end, no rest stops or gas stations. 

Uncle Bobby had woken the boys in the night, storming into the disorderly house, not even bothering to close the door from the near-horizontal rain. In his arms he was cradling a small glowing bundle, ordering for blankets and hot water bottles. He’d found it in the middle of a forest, the trees around it completely obliterated, all nature charred and burnt, all except a small, frail white snowdrop in full bloom, head bowed in shelter from the harsh weather. The bundle had shrieked and cried for hours in a language not even Bobby recognised, shattering all of the lightbulbs and windows and messed with the television aerials. Sammy had screamed too, head sore and ready to burst from the pressure of the noise. They couldn’t get close to it because of the light and heat it expelled, and the sheer force of its wail. They weren’t sure what it was, but it certainly wasn’t an ordinary child, not with the damage it caused. It had calmed down eventually and began to roll and plod experimentally around the living room. There was a singe in the carpet where it had thrashed. It didn’t eat pureed bananas or drink the warm milk that Bobby prepared, and it didn’t sleep or get drowsy when Dean had tried to sing ‘Hey Jude’, his favourite lullaby to it. It wasn’t a typical trog. 

Sam went for the tyke again. The black circle they were crawling around in was like a sort of pen, keeping them safely in the ring and in sight. They took no notice of the five-pointed star that was scrawled in the centre of it. Sam flopped forward to the bundle, batting at its arms. The boy made a face and swiped in retaliation, snatching a handful of Sam’s floppy brown hair. At first Sam laughed, but the unnamed kid tugged harder, no emotion crossing its face, and Sam yelped, bottom lip trembling and regarding the blue eyed stranger with a mix of confusion and betrayal. 

Dean raced forward again, leaping from the beanbag in which he sat and lifted his brother away from the bundle. He frowned at the stranger.

“No pulling,” he snapped, feeling Sammy’s fingers digging into his legs as he cowered, whimpering. “Back off.”

“No, you back off, kid,” Uncle Bobby rose and stood between the strange child and his adopted nephew. They hadn’t seen John in a week. “We have to treat this squirt with care; we don’t know what it is, or where it’s from, okay, so play fair. I know it’s a little weird, but we’ve got to treat the weird things nicely this time. We have to protect it. You don’t know what sort of damage it could cause. You have to be careful, okay? Make friends with it. Give it a chance.”

“You called him an ‘it’,” Dean murmured petulantly, looking at his shoes when he received the arch-eyebrow treatment. 

“Be nice. I’m going to do some research. Look after him. Please, kid.”

Uncle Bobby tapped Sammy on the shoulder, encouraging him to follow as he left for his study. Sammy loved the books there: the feel and the sound of the paper as he flipped through them aimlessly, smelling the faint mould scent and coughing as the lint caught in the back of his throat. He liked to clamber up on the stacks and knock them over, only to build them up again like a sort of replica of a city. Dean preferred the feeling of Bobby’s dark and ominous weaponry, so sharp and deadly and edgy. It made him feel powerful, like his father. His father had taught him that that feeling was a good one. Dean also liked the feeling and smell of his Uncle’s specially brewed hot chocolate and freshly baked pie that was covered in cream to hide the soggy and saggy middle.

Just as they were leaving the room, Sam lingered in the doorway, chewing his fat bottom lip thoughtfully. The blue eyed stranger suddenly got to his feet and tumbled headlong towards him, headbutting the baby Winchester in the arm. Sam grinned and giggled. Dean rolled his eyes, annoyed now. He was suspicious of the new member. He didn’t trust its source. He was unsettled and uncomfortable around it. He swallowed hard, fed-up and under pressure. He had to do this for Uncle Bobby. And for Sammy. If Sammy could like the bundle, so could he. He couldn’t help but wonder what John would do in this situation. 

Arms outstretched, Dean crouched and scooped up the bundle away from the grabbing hands of his kid brother, smile stretching the skin of his chubby cheeks, creating those distinct dimples Dean loved the prod at and make fun of. The warmth from it like a radiator. Suddenly, the dark haired boy squeaked and squealed and laughed loud and high, flailing its arms and legs, tiny feet and tiny toes kicking frantically. Dean just about dropped the bundle in surprise and it landed with a bump, blue eyes bright and alive with childish vitality. It stared up at him, anticipating. Dean squinted back, his own green eyes bewildered and unsure. Sammy clapped, clearly enjoying the show. Dean made a move for the bundle again. It dodged him and rolled onto its side, wriggling like an insect. Dean’s fingers caught the soles of the small feet, and it started to cackle again, unashamed and wild. Every attempt to grab the twisting baby set it laughing again, the lightest of touches sending it into fits of uncontrollable laughter as those Dean had feathers instead of fingertips. 

Frustrated, Dean advanced slowly towards it, only to have it get up onto its feet and toddle away from him. The kid bounced about, grinning wildly, no longer tottering and shifting around cautiously, finding confidence in the art of walking and clumsy galloping. He clung to chair legs and table legs, gripping into the loose fabric of the sofa and bumping into a table and rocking the phone in its cradle. It had no spacial awareness yet, its very objective was to get away from Dean as quickly as possible. Sometimes it would trip up and stumble, and crawl on all fours to the opposite side of the room, balancing on the black ring that had turned into an arena. The long sleeves of the shirt trailed on the floor, the hem cloaked its entire body like a smock or tunic hiding the rolls of pink around soft ankles. 

“Come here!” Dean shouted, bounding after the child. Uncle Bobby was smiling softly, leaning against the hallway wall, watching them run in circles. 

The older boy found himself smirking. The little blighter was a stubborn one. He raced after him, trying not to feel the fuzz of fun and enjoyment as he gave chase. He sprinted after the stranger, trapping him under the table, letting him run between his legs, pouncing out on him from behind various pieces of furniture, laughing at the howling chortles and babbles, bubbles on its lips and thumbnails of white in its gums where teeth were beginning to protrude. There were already two front ones. Dean growled, pretending to be a Wendigo, and pinned the tyke down to the floor, trying to avoid getting struck by the surprisingly strong and adamant legs, tickling its baby belly and baby toes. The sound of those delighted coos; he hadn’t heard those in so long. He missed them. Sammy cried a lot, rarely made a sound when Dad was near. He wanted to bottle it, show it to Dad, let him hear it, see if he remembers it. 

Suddenly, the laughter was so loud and bright, the lamp by the television popped, the screen cracked and out of nowhere: a flash of white light and…wings.

Uncle Bobby stood up straight. Sammy looked through his fingers. 

Dean recoiled and blinked flash-spots away in surprise, and his mouth gaped open. They were big, black, and put the kid off balance, and it tripped over the tips. Dean reached out and grasped them, pinching a couple of feathers in his hands. The stranger whined and grunted, pouting, feathers ruffling. 

“No pull.”

Uncle Bobby was holding his breath. 

“I don’t believe it…I didn’t think they existed.”

“Uncle Bobby, look!” Dean beamed, pointing at the stranger who was rolling itself up in its own feathers, the bones pliable and flexible. 

Uncle Bobby marched straight to a particular book in the shelf. A cloud of dust puffed up in a meek mushroom cloud as he opened it on the desk, splitting the spine yet again. He scanned the yellowing mocha coloured pages and bit the tip of his thumb. He should be worried. Very worried. That amount of heavenly power in such a small vessel…

“Can we keep him?” Dean tugged at his uncle’s trouser leg, asking shyly, socks creating friction on the carpet as he fidgeted. 

“Dean…” Uncle Bobby looked down at him, those eager spring-grass eyes and round, youthful face, and his worries ebbed away a little. “I thought you didn’t like him, anyway.”

Dean glanced over at the feathery bundle and shook his head. Sammy was playing with the feathers, stroking them. The bundle was less discomforted, but then Sam was always gentler than he was.

“We’ll look after him, promise! We’ll feed him and, an’ clean him and…walk him and I’ll protect him, like Sammy. Please? Please, Uncle Bobby?”

The uncle considered. There would be demons after them. So much death and despair to come. But the boys looked so happy. They could have a new family member. It had been so long without a happy family. It was a long shot, the apple pie life, but it wouldn’t hurt to try it. 

“He needs a name,” he had an idea. “What day is it?”

“Thursday,” Dean replied, acknowledging the calendar.

Uncle Bobby flipped through the book and narrowed his eyes at it. He selected a name. 

“We’ll call him Castiel.”


End file.
